He stared at her, his face drooping with chagrin, and she stepped backwards so that he was forced to release her. Her arms throbbed — she would have hideous bruises there, she knew it! Still, she could not but pity him.
“I am sorry, Mr Fielding, but I cannot possibly marry you.” When he still said nothing, she went on, “I shall go to the saloon and find Mama.”
She half expected him to come running after her, or to say something, anything, but he stood transfixed as she turned and walked away from him. When she entered the colonnade and looked back, he was still standing there as if rooted to the spot.
Anger sped her steps through the multitude of passageways to the saloon. How dared he offer for her! He was not even on the list. Lord Brockscombe, Lord Thomas Medhurst and Lord Embleton — those were her targets, together with the possible outside bet of Lord Grayling. But definitelynotMr Fielding! Her fortune and her stepmother’s connections meant that she could at least expect a title. What gave Mr Fielding the right to offer for her, and as for Papa—! What on earth was he thinking, to encourage the pretensions of a man like that?
Had she inadvertently encouraged him? She had certainly been open and friendly with him, just as with Bertram’s other friends. It had not occurred to her to do otherwise, but she had never supposed him to be a suitor. Not that there was anything wrong with him beyond the lack of a title, she supposed. And the parsonage… she shuddered. She could not see herself living in aparsonage, and doing good works about the parish as a dutiful vicar’s wife.
She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she failed to see her stepmother at the top of the service stairs.
“Beatrice? Wherever have you been? I have been looking for you.”
She jumped, and executed a hasty curtsy. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Mama. I was just coming to find you.”
“Have you been out walking? Remember to conserve your strength for the ride this afternoon.”
“No, I was attending the gentlemen’s meeting.”
“The gentlemen’s meeting?Whatever are you doing mingling with… withintellectuals?”
“Why should I not? I am learning Latin, so—”
“Learning Latin?Beatrice Franklyn, how many times must I tell you that this wild behaviour just will not do. Ladies do not learn Latin. French, perhaps. Italian, certainly — most respectable, although one only needs a very little, to carry off a song, and you have already achieved an adequate degree of accomplishment there. No further book learning is necessary after leaving the schoolroom. You will only addle your brain, and give any rational gentleman a disgust of you. You are to give up all thought of learning Latin, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mama,” she said miserably, dipping a curtsy.
“You will go to the saloon at once, and spend the rest of the morning in useful occupation. I shall expect to see two additional roses on your tapestry before you leave for your ride.”
“Yes, Mama.” Another curtsy, and she was permitted to creep away to the saloon, find her work basket and take up the hated tapestry.
There was no one else in the saloon, but she dared not abandon her task, in case she should be forbidden from the ride that afternoon. So she stitched diligently until Harper came tofetch her to change into her riding habit. Her spirits lifted at once, for she would have Bertram’s company for a few hours, and she could ask him some questions about the ablative, which were puzzling her rather. That would not contravene her stepmother’s prohibition, would it? It was not book learning, merely talking, after all.
Such anticipated treats rarely materialise, however, as she should have realised. Time after time her hopes had been raised and then dashed. The glorious success of a season in London, the spectacular marriage into the nobility, even the acceptance into her stepmother’s exalted family — none of it had come to pass. The Bucknells had never liked her. They had smiled to her face and sneered at her behind her back. Then there were the trivial mishaps of everyday life — the new bonnet that disintegrated at the first drop of rain, the silk that had looked so fetching in the drapery but made her look bilious, or the planned outings that had to be put off because of inclement weather. Life was one long succession of disappointments.
Here was another such, for instead of Bertram and the pleasures of the subjunctive, she found herself lifted into the saddle by Lord Grayling, who sprang onto his own horse and positioned himself alongside her as their group trotted away from the stables. Well, that was a pleasure of a different sort, and the ablative could wait.
At first, they spoke only of the warmth of the afternoon sun, and the welcome shade of the limes along the drive, as his highly strung horse danced and pranced along, with many a toss of his fine head. Then there was a narrow lane to be negotiated before they came to more open country and could spread out a little. The baron controlled his mount without effort and then adjusted their progress, she noticed, to put a little space between the two of them and the other riders in the group. Bertram was now some way in front with his friends and Miss Grayling. Behindthem, the duke and the marquess were escorting Miss Hutchison and the nervous Miss Pikesleys, their pace slow. Mr Fielding had not come out at all.
“It was a pleasure to see you at the meeting this morning, Miss Franklyn,” the baron said, with a harder than usual tug on the reins to bring him closer to her. “Is it Embleton’s odes or the man himself who interests you most, I wonder? I am mortified that you did not attend my own presentation on Seneca, but then a mere baron such as myself cannot hope to compete with a future duke who also writes amorous poetry.”
Amorouspoetry? That was an interesting element to the character of a man who seemed uninterested in women.
“I am sure your speech was very interesting, sir, but I could not understand any of it.”
“You heard it?” he said, eyebrows raised.
“Very clearly from my position in the chapel gallery, but as I say, I understood none of it, so I did not stay long. Poetry is more interesting to me, with its rhythms. Whatever the subject of Lord Embleton’s poems, Bertram read them beautifully.”
“Ah yes, the future earl. If it comes to pass, that is.”
A strange comment. “Why should it not? Lord Rennington has no legitimate heirs of his own, so his brother will inherit and Bertram after him.”
“Perhaps,” Lord Grayling said, his eyed hooded. “The earl is still young enough to sire more sons.”
“But the countess is not.”
“He is not married to the countess, is he? The marriage is invalid, and he has sent her away. If he marries a younger woman, he could easily put his brother’s nose out of joint, and your friend Atherton’s nose, too. That would be amusing, would it not?”
